The Legend Of St. Bevon! Poem by Alice Coale Simpers

Shaded lights were burning low—
Muffled bells swung to and fro—
Solemn monks were chanting slow—
Chanting of the Crucified;
When the good St. Bavon died.

Oft had he trod the jeering street,
With bare and bleeding feet;
Leaving crimson-flecked the snow
In memory of his Master's woe;

With grief closed lips, sat he apart,
The comrade of the dead man's heart;
At last the chanting throng were gone
And he was with th' dead alone;

When the bare uncurtained room
Grew still and ghastly like a tomb,
On the icy neck he fell
And begged the death-sealed lips to tell

If one deed were left undone,—
That in that radiance like the sun
Didst shade with grief the spirit flown,
Or dim the brightness of his crown!

Then heard his spirit's inmost ear
A voice that he alone could hear,
'A shadow walks with me akin to pain,
I seek to shun it, but in vain,

'For as I left the life of time,
And journeyed toward th' blessed clime,
I passed along that darkened shore.
Where wail the lost forevermore.

'As on that awful gulf I walked,
A black-robed demon with me talked:
'Behold yon spirit lost!' I heard him cry,
''Tis one we strove o'er, thou and I.

''I, with the tempter's gilded snare,
Thou, with the pleading voice of prayer;
Hadst thou but prayed till set of sun,
My power had vanished; thou hadst won.'

'Above the harps and angel's songs I hear,
The demon's laugh, and taunting jeer;
Oh, comrade! brother! saint!
Pray for the tempted; oh, pray and do not faint!'